


Trapped by the Rain

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)



Series: The Sprite and the Stoneman [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bigotry & Prejudice, M/M, Non-human, Past Lives, Romantic Friendship, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich
Summary: Outlanders are treated with distrust and suspicion.  Those with unusual talents are more vulnerable





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



It has been raining for days. Heavy black clouds have obscured sun, moon, stars, and it's become difficult to tell night from day. We haven't crossed the threshold in too long, and the walls are starting to close in, making us both irritable. I am thankful for the wide arches that overlook the courtyard below, and for the sheltering canopy of branches that make shutters unnecessary. Just as well... I can't afford to replace them, and we have already moved the bed as far from the window as is possible in the cramped room. The faintest breeze stirs the leaves but barely cools the room.

We both hate to be out in the rain.

It turns my grey skin to shiny black coal, so foreign in these parts. I am an alien, wingless and dark, and while the people do not fear me, they cross the street to avoid my menacing bulk. "Stone devil" they call me, without even bothering to lower their voices. If that's the worst they can do, I have no difficulty bearing it. I have suffered so much worse elsewhere.

Your hair curls wildly and your wings turn sodden, heavy as a wet woollen cloak. They make your shoulders ache and take forever to dry, splayed out damply in my room. There isn't space in your little attic. When we fought last week after battling through another storm, and you marched up the narrow staircase to sulk, I found you crouched and miserable, wings folded unnaturally as you tried to spread them in sections.

What could I do? I smiled in spite of your cross scowl, picked you up and carried you downstairs. I ignored your huffed protests and moved furniture and books, then arranged your wings carefully, shuffling into bed and hugging you to me. It was several hours before you grudgingly whispered 'thank you' into the pillow of my chest.

Yes, we both hate the rain, but it's rhythmic patter is soothing background music as we lie together.

Today I am pretending to work, but I am distracted. You are lying on your stomach, wings folded neatly at rest. We bickered again earlier, but you didn't leave this time. Instead you picked up your stones and took them to the bed, where you have been for the last few hours petting them and babbling nonsense, like a child with a toy. It's not a game though, I can sense that.

You are communicating, moving them around in defined patterns, speaking soft words with a musical lilt. I remember you told me they sing to you, and I can't help but be uneasy. I saw the boy who held the stone on the day I took you away. I saw what it did to him, draining him of life energy and turning him to a husk. What songs did they sing to him, to steal him away? Will they steal you too?

You pause and look over your shoulder with a smile. "You worry too loudly, Stoneman" you chuckle, returning to your task.

 


End file.
